


Stalking Unrequited Desires

by DancingBanana5



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Asexual!Sherlock, Drunkenness, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is a stalker, Unrequited Lust, drunk!lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingBanana5/pseuds/DancingBanana5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has taken to drink and Sherlock wants to find out why. In the process the detective turns stalker, and ends up finding something even he didn't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Drunk again, Lestrade?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fic, partially inspired by the third frame of this artwork here --> http://gwydion-chan.deviantart.com/art/In-Good-and-Bad-times-Sketchdump-351420519
> 
> I'm considering writing another few chapters for this one - please comment if you'd like that!  
> Any other criticism would be greatly appreciated (:
> 
> **I have changed the name of this fic because I didn't feel the original name ("Drunk again, Lestrade?") was appropriate to where the story is headed. Sorry if this has caused any confusion!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives late back at his flat to find a rather intoxicated Lestrade lying in wait. Sherlock decides (unwisely?) to re-kindle his interest in human chemistry...

Sherlock toed open the door to 221B, his arms filled with stacks of tupperware containing sections of the brain Molly had kindly dissected for him earlier at the morgue. The fact that the door had been left slightly ajar didn’t bother him; Mrs Hudson often liked to leave it that way, not wanting to be woken if her boys - boy, Sherlock corrected himself - returned late (and knowing Sherlock’s forgetfulness when it came to trivial matters such as door-keys). 

A musty smell still lingered in the stairwell from the years of disuse, and Sherlock was finding it hard to get used to this new 221B which lacked the familiar scent of John’s cologne, as well as all the doctor’s medical paraphernalia. Easing the door carefully shut behind him, Sherlock climbed up the stairs to the flat. 

The near-pitch dark had put his senses on hyper-alert, and the minute he mounted the final step it was obvious something was amiss - the door had been flung wide open and the desk lamp which Sherlock usually left on in the evenings had been knocked to the floor, the bulb shattered and the shade askew. By the pale light struggling through 221B’s gauze curtains, Sherlock could make out a hunched figure sitting in John’s - no, the new - armchair. Still edgy from the years spent undercover hunting Moriarty, the detective froze. 

Suddenly the shape raised its head and lurched up from where it had been sitting, semi-comatose, in the chair. Momentarily stunned (but only momentarily; after all these things sometimes happen), Sherlock just had time to turn and deposit the column of boxes on the kitchen table before a solid fist connected with his jaw, making him bite down hard on his lip and see stars.

“C’mere, pretty boy,” Lestrade growled, words slurring as he reached down to pull Sherlock from where he had fallen against one of the kitchen chairs.

Ready this time, Sherlock caught the inspector’s wrist and wrestled him into an armlock, shoving the shorter man face-first against the wall.

“Are you drunk again, Lestrade?” hissed Sherlock into the inspector’s ear. The answer was, frankly, blindingly obvious, but he wanted to hear the confession from the man himself.

“Why d’you e’en care?” Lestrade returned savagely, the sentiment clear even if the words were not. Sherlock bit back his reply.

“This has to stop.”

Rather than trying to force language to do his bidding, Lestrade struggled to face Sherlock, one arm still pinned behind him. With his free hand he reached round and grabbed the back of the detective’s belt, gripping him in a close (though far from warm) embrace. Slowly, deliberately, and without breaking eye-contact, Lestrade ground his crotch against Sherlock’s.

Stunned (again momentarily) into loosening his hold, Sherlock could only blink as the older man took advantage of the hesitation and roughly pushed past him. Lestrade re-settled himself in the armchair, picking up a near-empty glass of amber liquid from the coffee table.

Sherlock sank onto the sofa. It wasn’t, unfortunately, the first time this had happened. More and more often, Lestrade had been showing up at the flat (or worse, sneaking in and lying in wait) in states ranging from mildly inebriated to completely hammered, but always carrying one bottle of spirits or another. His visits tended to be late at night or early morning, but deduce as he might Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him fathom the cause of the inspector’s behaviour.

This, however, was a development. Lestrade was often filthy-mouthed and coarse when he’d been at the drink, but he had never tried to touch Sherlock in that way. Sure each visit left Sherlock a couple of bruises the richer, but he had never seen that wanton, even slightly depraved look in the inspector’s eye. It chilled him slightly, and left him at a loss as to how to proceed. Sherlock was never - well, almost never - at a loss. He decided a simple question couldn’t hurt.

“Lestrade. What exactly is going on?”

Those eyes confronted him again. They looked sadder now, though no less intense.

“Don’t concern yoursel’ wi’things you don’t understan’, pretty boy,” Lestrade mumbled, nursing the dregs of his whiskey. Sherlock inched closer.

“But I don’t like not understanding,” he said childishly. 

He needed to know the reason for Lestrade’s actions, and it wasn’t as if the inspector would remember this simple, self-critical admission of fault in the morning. Lestrade made as if to put his glass back on the table, but his hand stopped short of the edge and the glass fell, the sticky liquid making a dark stain on the carpet. The dull thunk seemed to bring the inspector out of a kind of reverie; as Sherlock leant over to pick up the glass Lestrade caught his wrist. This almost gentle repetition of Sherlock’s earlier action intrigued the detective, and he allowed himself to be pulled closer until he was kneeling at Lestrade’s side.

“Why do you even care?” murmured Lestrade, the skin around his eyes creasing in anguish.

Sherlock was suddenly struck by a feeling. It was more of a hunch, an embryo of a thought, but could it be…?

He leaned forward ever so slightly. The despair in Lestrade’s eyes gave way to a look of confused suspicion, and Sherlock observed this development interestedly. He reached carefully behind the inspector’s neck, and cupped the back of his head, watching as Lestrade’s alcohol-addled emotions struggled violently on his expressive face. An uncertain frown was accompanied by a flush which crept up slowly from beneath his shirt collar, and there - what Sherlock had been waiting for - the flash of Lestrade’s dilated pupils before the man broke eye-contact.

Sherlock knew what should logically follow (by human reasoning anyway), but he was suddenly loathe to take advantage of the inebriated inspector. Weren’t there… rules against that kind of thing? Sherlock shook his head to clear it - he couldn’t believe he was even considering that. He was asexual, for the love of God!

The detective had come to this conclusion at the tender age of eighteen. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to be “normal” - it just didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right - the boys, the girls - not even the androgynous university student he had met once at a club (again, trying to be “normal” - Sherlock hated clubs). After that, Sherlock had given up, preferring to spend his Saturday nights at university perfecting his chemistry studies. But eighteen suddenly felt very long ago, despite Lestrade’s constant drunken likening of him to a “pretty boy”.

In the interests of human chemistry (he desperately reasoned with himself), Sherlock finally closed the distance between the two men, pressing his lips to Lestrade’s. The older man groaned almost inaudibly at the contact, but as Sherlock pulled back he turned his head to the side in an indication of… What? Shame? Sherlock decided he really needed to brush up on his human emotions now that he was back in London.

Leaving Lestrade sprawled in the chair, Sherlock went to the kitchen and placed the stack of brain sections in the fridge. It was clear the inspector was in no fit state to take the tube home - or a cab, for that matter. That left - Sherlock counted quickly - five possible options. No, two plausible ones (waking Mrs Hudson up would be unnecessary). Lestrade could kip on the sofa or in John’s old room… Which was full of boxes. The former, then. Why did it take so long to come to a perfectly simple conclusion! Sherlock grunted in frustration.

Returning to the living area, Sherlock noted that Lestrade had passed out in the chair - as expected, with that much alcohol in his system. Lifting the inspector onto the sofa was a struggle as he was built like tank - perfect for a police officer, provided that officer didn’t make a habit of collapsing drunk in his friends’ apartments…

With Lestrade finally in the recovery position on the sofa, Sherlock took stock of the situation. It was unlikely the man would vomit - pissed as he was, the inspector could hold his liquor. If he did, the recovery position ought to stop him from choking. Sherlock sighed and ran his fingers through his hair as he quietly shut the door behind him. Dawn was already breaking - but Lestrade wouldn’t wake for a long time. Sherlock would deal with him then.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Lestrade sleeps, Sherlock seeks Mycroft's help. The detective is determined to get to the bottom of Lestrade... Oh look, a double-entendre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Here is the next chapter! I expect Monday will come quicker than Sherlock anticipates... (;

After less than three hours rest (Sherlock didn’t “sleep” - rather he preferred to lie on his bed, fingertips steepled beneath his chin, and do some DIY in his mind palace) the detective returned to the sitting room. Lestrade was still asleep, but he had flung an arm across his face to shield it from the early-morning light streaming in through 221B’s windows. Sherlock deduced that the man must have got up at some point to piss - confirmed by the slight mess in the bathroom and the fact that the inspector’s flies were still undone.

Sherlock paused for a second to take in the sight before him. The man’s unkempt appearance and two days’ worth of stubble said he was living alone. No need to keep up a façade - he hadn’t shaved since Friday morning, and it was now Sunday. In all the time Sherlock had known him the inspector had been struggling with marital and domestic issues, but it looked like the bitch had finally thrown him out. Sherlock was surprised by the sudden bitterness he felt towards the woman.

Lestrade had been a well-respected member of the police force (he still was really, it was only Sherlock he had taken to visiting lately) before Sherlock’s “death”, but now there was something different about him and the detective couldn’t put his finger on it. It was bloody frustrating.

He would speak to John. No, he was busy with Mary, and was still forgiving him for… well. Molly… No, no, no. Everybody had a “significant other” (Sherlock’s lip curled at the phrase) these days, and really didn’t need bothering with Sherlock’s clumsy attempts to understand emotions.

Mycroft.

No, he wasn’t _that_ desperate, was he?

Sherlock snatched his mobile from the kitchen table and returned to his bedroom, bolting the door behind him.

“Get me Mycroft.”

Anthea’s suave tone greeted him on the other end of the line. “ _I’m sorry, but Mr Holmes is unavailable at the present moment. Can I take a message?_ ”

“Anthea, it’s me. Sherlock. Please tell me he’ll be less than ten minutes?”

“ _Oh hello there Sherlock. Hmm, I’m sure his own little brother can tempt him from the sweet arms of the cross-trainer - give me a second…_ ”

Sherlock snorted.

“ _Hello, brother dear. What gives you cause to call at such an early hour? I must say, I thought you’d still be in bed._ ”

“You know I rarely sleep, Mycroft. But I’ve no need to inquire in kind - it’s clear cake doesn’t burn off calories by itself.”

“ _Charming as always. Now could we…?_ ”

“Of course,” Sherlock smirked at his brother’s unsubtle attempt to change the subject. “I would like to bring to your attention the recent rather strange behaviour of our favourite Detective Inspector. Could I - no, I wouldn’t like to impose, brother mine…”

“ _What is it, Sherlock?_ ”

Sherlock could hear the exasperation in his brother’s voice.

“Would it be possible to, say, track his movements out of the office? Who he sees, what he says to them?”

“ _And what would be in it for me, little brother?_ ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I don't know. I’ll have John bring round some of Mary’s home-made red velvet.”

There was a laden pause.

“ _... And if I don’t acquiesce to your request?_ ”

“Mycroft. This is of the utmost importance. I want the data, records of his conversations, who he talks to… You see, the conversation is crucial. Without it, my investigation is void.”

“ _I shall see what I can do. On another note entirely, our parents are visiting next weekend and I was wondering if you could -_ ”

“Absolutely not. Although I’m sure they would enjoy _Les Miserables_ \- last I checked it was showing at the Queen’s Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. Send my regards.”

Sherlock hung up without waiting for a reply and made a face. Sometimes it just astounded him how _ordinary_ his parents were. He snapped from his contemplation as he heard a loud groan from the sitting room. 

“How are you feeling, inspector?” he asked, lazily making his way into the kitchen.

“Like someone hit me with a bike… Sherlock?” Lestrade struggled into a semi-upright position on the sofa. He looked confused.

“Yes, yes. I’ll take an educated guess that many of last night’s occurrences are eluding your memory at present?”

“English, Sherlock, please. It’s far too early for your babbling -”

“It is precisely eight o’clock, inspector. If it wasn’t a Sunday you would have been up two hours ago for work. The fact remains that I am busy, and you are currently occupying the best part of my settee.”

Lestrade squinted up at the detective. Sherlock tried to keep up his pretence of irritation.

“No, you’re right, I don’t remember a thing. Got a feeling I ought to apologise though… Sorry.”

“Graham -”

“Greg.”

“Greg. This is becoming quite a regular occurrence, and much as I…” Sherlock hesitated, “… enjoy your company whilst you are sober, I do not appreciate inebriated Detective Inspectors breaking into my flat to drink whiskey at four in the morning.”

Sherlock thought it best to leave the rest of the night’s events under the rug for now.

Lestrade looked down at his shoes. Sherlock noticed a red flush creeping up the side of his neck, much like it had the night before. Embarrassment. John always said it wasn’t nice to embarrass people - not that Sherlock had any idea what it felt like to be embarrassed (although there had been that incident with Molly at the Christmas do… He shuddered).

“I’ll, um. Yeah, I’ll be off then,” Lestrade mumbled.

“Well… I could make you some -”

“Yeah, no. Sherlock, look, I’m sorry about all this. And for whatever happened last night.” He stood unsteadily, one hand clasped to his forehead.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock coughed. “Inspector, your fly is undone.” 

He pointed to the offending zip. Lestrade smiled ruefully.

“And you owe me for a desk lamp.”

Lestrade widened his eyes as he caught sight of the mess of glass and cords behind the sofa.

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m so sorry -”

Sherlock relented slightly.

“We can talk about this another time. Right now, you need to go home, take a shower and shave. You’re almost rivalling John with that scruff.”

The inspector smiled weakly.

“See you Monday then, I guess.”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. Goodbye, inspector.” 

Sherlock quickly transferred his attention to the fridge, mentally kicking his id back into the dungeon of his mind palace.


	3. Sherlock "Investigates"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock uses Mycroft's resources to "investigate" (stalk) Lestrade. Previous suspicions are confirmed and new ones aroused. (Hint: soon suspicions won't be the only things getting aroused.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly slowly catchy story (:
> 
> At least it's really Monday today!

On Monday morning Greg awoke aching and disoriented on the tiny mattress of the flat he was currently renting. It took him a second to realise what he was doing there, but then his wife’s face surfaced in his mind, furiously berating him like usual over god knew what. He shook off the unpleasantly familiar image and rolled over, pulling the covers tight over his ears.

When he next woke, light was streaming through the cheap polyester blinds covering the room’s tiny window. Greg took one look at the luminous digits on his alarm clock and cursed loudly, jumping straight out of bed and into the shower. He dressed hurriedly, realising as he did so that the extra five minutes under the stream of hot water were going to cost him his breakfast.

The inspector dragged a comb through his wet hair and started as he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back at him had dark circles under his eyes, the pale cheeks giving the face a wan appearance. Greg blinked, and the reflection blinked with him. Disturbed, he quickly straightened his tie, grabbed his jacket and strode out of the flat.

Although Greg didn’t know it yet, this was to be a poor start to the equally poor day which was to follow. At the Yard he had nothing to do except paperwork, which consisted of a list of case reports to write up. Greg’s mind, as ever, kept straying out of bounds; he was unable to keep his twitchy fingers from his phone, determined as they were to check his inbox every five minutes.

By the time half past one came he was starving, and desperate to escape the confines of his paper-swamped desk. But his plans for a Sainsbury’s curry and a quiet smoke (that particular vice had crept back even before the alcohol) were scuppered when Sergeant Donovan stuck her head around his office door.

“Ready? You’re coming for lunch with me today, sir.”

Greg groaned. He knew there was no escaping when Sally got that glint in her eye.

“I’m sorry Sal, I’ve got pla-”

She cut him off abruptly.

“Really? And if I’m not mistaken, those plans involve a measly sandwich and sneaking a fag out back when you think nobody’s looking.”

Greg fixed his eyes on his computer screen in an attempt to evade the sergeant’s piercing gaze.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Half the division knows something’s up with you - I’ve just drawn the short straw of having to find out what.”

That had the desired effect of getting Greg’s wind up.

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong with me?” he scowled. “And, for that matter, what makes it any of _your_ business? Isn’t it enough for a man to suffer his own misfortunes quietly without all his colleagues pretending he’s on Jeremy Kyle?”

Sally unfortunately looked unabashed.

“Come on. I may pretend not to care most of the time, but you’re my friend as well as my boss and lately you haven’t been yourself. So, we’re having lunch.”

With that she snatched up Greg’s coat and marched out of the door.

Heaving himself out of his chair, Greg followed. He had a feeling that this was going to end badly.

***

Sherlock’s eyes were glued to his laptop screen as he watched Lestrade leave the Yard. He switched from one grainy CCTV feed to another until he caught sight of Donovan leading the inspector into a curry house. So, she was trying to please him for some reason - Lestrade loved curry but Sherlock knew it wasn’t Donovan’s favourite.

His fingers skated over the keyboard until he had hacked the feed from the restaurant’s security camera. Sherlock sat back and watched as Mycroft’s man entered the restaurant, brushing past the booth where the two police officers were sitting and pressing a tiny bug onto the underside of the table - and hey presto, he had audio.

Sometimes he really hated how helpful Mycroft could be, especially when he knew it would put someone in his debt.

He listened intently to the conversation between Lestrade and Donovan, but after a while it became clear that the pair were just making small talk. It wasn’t until after the food had arrived that a particular line made Sherlock prick up his ears.

“ _I’ll cut to the chase here, sir. Is it problems with the wife?_ ”

Sherlock watched as Lestrade visibly cringed.

“ _I won’t expect you to apologise for being so forward Sal, but it’s a bit of a sore subject at the moment - if you must know._ ”

“ _What’s she gone and done now? Chucked you out?_ ” Donovan asked, half joking.

“ _On my arse, rather. She’ll be filing for divorce within the month._ ”

Sherlock smiled without humour. So he’d got that part right, at least.

Donovan, on the other hand, looked appalled.

“ _Greg - I had no idea -_ ”

“ _S’not a problem. I’m sick of the bloody woman anyway. Was only a matter of time really._ ”

“ _But the kids?_ ”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Donovan’s observation. He was more surprised by the show of emotion from the sergeant than the fact that he’d forgotten the inspector even had children.

“ _She’ll have primary custody. I’ll have visitation rights of course… And we’ll need to sort out weekend arrangements, holiday arrangements…_ ”

Sherlock listened as Lestrade trailed off, the fuzzy camera feed showing the inspector rubbing a hand over his face.

“ _I’m sure we can arrange some time off for you, if you just need to clear you head or whatever?_ ”

Donovan sounded uncertain, for all her experience with married men. But then again, if Anderson’s wife’s intelligence was anywhere near his own, Sherlock suspected she wouldn’t find out about her husband’s infidelity for another decade at least.

“ _Thanks, Sally, but I prefer being on the job. Keeps me occupied, and - _”__

Lestrade stopped talking hastily.

“ _And?_ ” Sergeant Donovan prompted.

“ _Never mind. Wasn’t important._ ”

The inspector got up to pay the bill, but Donovan stopped him.

“ _I’ll get that. I’m the one that dragged you out here in the first place._ ”

Sherlock watched as she paid and the couple left the restaurant. If his curiosity had been piqued before, it was nothing to how he felt now. He sent Mycroft a short text:

_Will be continuing with investigation. Ongoing access to resources necessary. Much obliged. SH_

Sherlock made a face at the written expression of his gratitude, but he found he really wanted to know what Lestrade had been about to say before the cat had grabbed his tongue.


	4. Hidden Cameras and Concealed Microphones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock installs cameras in Lestrade's flat, and gets more of an eyeful than he'd bargained for. Voyeurism-aided masturbation ensues, and it's hard to tell who's more surprised - Sherlock or his dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me while I struggled with a plot line. Good news though - I buried it again under some smut I found in the garden. Enjoy (;

As he sat on the steamy tube, newspaper in hand, Lestrade tortured himself with mental action replays of his lunch with Sally. He was sure he had got away with it when his slip of the tongue had betrayed the fact that there was another reason he wanted to keep on at the Yard. Fact of the matter was, he wouldn’t leave his work for any sum of money - much as he liked to complain otherwise to John (and anybody else who happened to be listening). That was part of the reason why the wife had finally lost it with him, turning up as he did way after the kids’ bedtime expecting to be fed; working weekends and overtime without a second thought for his home life.

The whole sorry broth boiled down to one factor. And it wasn’t the lure of the cases and the immense variety of his work which made his job worthwhile. Hell, not even the satisfaction of justice being served which had motivated him as a young man could drag him out of bed at all hours these days.

As Greg fought his way out of the tube station through the crowd of haggard-faced commuters, he forced himself to confront his real motivation - the sharp tongue, chameleon eyes and nigh on unbearable intelligence of his “consulting detective”, Sherlock Holmes.

***

Sherlock had visited the flat as soon as he had discovered its location - a combination of rain-pattern and time-keeping analysis (and outright stalking). He had fitted out the bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette each with a miniature fish-eye lens and a microphone. What other people would have considered a gross intrusion of their privacy, Sherlock thought of simply as a precautionary measure designed to ensure the success of his mission. He knew Lestrade was due to return any moment now, and had set up camp by his laptop in anticipation of the inspector’s arrival.

It _had_ crossed the detective’s mind that these were overly dedicated measures to be taking for the sole purpose of getting to the bottom of Lestrade’s recent drinking habit. The inspector was one of the most intelligent men Sherlock knew - he had proven he could look after himself perfectly well in the majority of situations which had arisen on the cases they had shared - and this was high praise indeed from the self-professed sociopath. But Sherlock suspected that Lestrade’s high-ranking position could well be in jeopardy if his superiors were to discover his antics.

At least that’s what he told himself as he tried to justify his growing obsession with the inspector.

***

Greg entered the flat, blissfully unaware of the tiny lenses positioned in each room. He undressed, swapping constricting shirt and tie for a pair of comfy jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, then began to cook himself dinner. He pulled out a plastic-wrapped ready-meal and placed it in the microwave, setting the timer before turning to shove a stack of cases off the battered couch at the far end of the kitchenette so that he could sit down. Papers and files were piled up on the small kitchen table - it was almost worse than being in the office. At least he had some privacy here.

He allowed himself to doze for a few minutes, jumping when the ping of the microwave sounded. Greg got a tray and ate the food without bothering to put it on a plate. He felt generally apathetic - not exhausted, just listless and vaguely dispirited. Sherlock hadn’t made an appearance at the office all day - hadn’t turned up to whisk him off on the trail of some new, daring criminal; hadn’t come to demand his assistance in some hare-brained scheme - the man hadn’t even sent a text message. He would even welcome something as banal as _Mrs Hudson busy. Get milk. SH_ (John had moved in with Mary, and far from learning to fend for himself, Greg had found himself turning into Sherlock’s new minder - not that he minded…).

Chucking the remains of his food into the bin, Greg added his cutlery to the growing pile in the sink. He was finding it harder and harder to care about the state of the flat, especially when there was nobody to complain about it. He almost missed having people constantly on his back - the silence from Sherlock was disconcerting.

At eleven thirty Greg decided to turn in. His eyes kept glazing over before he could reach the second page of most of the files, and he had already drifted off more than once. He crossed the tiny hall space into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, steadfastly avoiding his reflection in the spotted mirror. When he was done he stripped off his t-shirt and climbed into bed, still wearing the loose-fitting joggers.

Getting to sleep was harder than he expected. Greg’s mind was suddenly whirring (funny how you can never sleep when you want to, he thought), and he found certain images surfacing - little things like a blue scarf, an unruly curl of dark brown hair, a sarcastic quirk of the lips…

Those lips.

Greg moaned. Immediately he was ashamed of the vulnerable noise - ashamed of himself for making it, and ashamed of being attracted to someone so who was clearly unattainable. He rolled onto his side and clamped his eyes shut.

***

Sherlock had watched the inspector’s movements with interest, analysing each movement and coming up with a thousand ways in which the information gleaned could be useful, before dismissing all as hopeless.

After a while Sherlock’s concentration had slipped and he had found himself admiring the way Lestrade’s t-shirt clung to his broad chest and biceps; noticing unimportant details like how the top of the inspector’s boxers was just showing over the loose waistband of his sweatpants; smiling at the way his chin would drop onto his chest as he slept.

Sherlock had been about to wager Lestrade would fall asleep right there in the kitchen when he had dragged himself up from the couch and evidently decided to call it a night. Sherlock had been riveted as the inspector had peeled off the t-shirt, back muscles and biceps rippling, and climbed shirtless into bed.

As Sherlock listened to the man’s breathing slow, he heard a faint moan. Hmm. It definitely wasn’t the kind of moan that said “Oh bugger, I’ve left the oven on”. Sherlock guessed that it was more likely than not a moan of sexual frustration. 

A while ago Sherlock had had to research the ins and outs of sex for a case, and his findings had left him infinitely more knowledgeable on the matter - but none the wiser in practice. He did remember reading somewhere that you are more likely to sleep-talk when you have something (or someone) on your mind, and he resolved to keep watch over Lestrade to see if this was the case.

At around half past one, Sherlock was roused from his impromptu catnap by a grunting sound. He quickly checked the camera feed from Lestrade’s bedroom, but it took him a second to understand what the inspector was doing. When he realised, he tore his eyes away from the screen immediately. He hadn’t expected to see Lestrade doing _that_!

For whatever reason, Sherlock had never felt the need to masturbate. He had tried it when he was younger and the outcome had been relatively pleasant, but he had never seemed to _need_ it like some men. He had flicked through the porn collection on John’s laptop plenty of times, but the usually blonde women with their large breasts and improbably slim waists had served more to tell him who to keep his flatmate away from at a crime scene than to provide any kind of sexual stimulus for the detective.

Slowly Sherlock lifted his eyes to the computer screen. He watched as Lestrade kicked back the covers and palmed himself gently with one hand, the outline of his erection just visible through the low-quality fish-eye lens. The inspector slowly slid his other hand under the loose band of his sweatpants and arched his back slightly. Although the image quality was poor, the hidden microphone picked up even the slightest of sounds - and the noises Lestrade was making as he touched himself sent an unexpected shock of heat straight to Sherlock’s crotch.

Sherlock jumped at the sensation, fighting the urge to sneak his own hand between his legs. He continued to watch as Lestrade started to pump his cock beneath his trousers, grunting and muttering profanities under his breath. Sherlock could feel himself getting hard and tried to distance himself emotionally, as was his usual habit when his bodily functions refused to pander to the iron rule of his mind. It didn’t work, and the detective concluded that his brain must be suffering from the sudden blood loss.

After another minute of Lestrade’s filthy moaning, Sherlock gave in to his instincts. He slid a pale hand under his blue silk dressing-gown, lightly stroking himself as he listened to the inspector’s heavy breathing. The sensation was stronger than any of Sherlock’s previous experiences, and he allowed his eyes to flutter closed for a second as he imagined Lestrade’s hand around his cock; Lestrade there in the room with him, making those gruff, throaty noises as he worked Sherlock into a frenzy; Lestrade’s lips crushed against his own -

Sherlock was on the verge of release when he heard Lestrade growl his name, but he was too far gone in his own fantasy to realise its full implications - or indeed that it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. He threw his head back as he came, riding his orgasm until he collapsed against the desk. But watching Lestrade enter a similar state of euphoria before falling back against the mattress sent a sudden wave of depression washing over the detective. Lestrade probably hadn’t given Sherlock a second thought since their drunken kiss on Saturday night. He couldn’t even remember what had happened the following morning, for goodness’ sake - it was highly unlikely that the man was thinking of him as he slept.

Suddenly exhausted, Sherlock closed his laptop and dragged himself to bed.


End file.
